


Kabuki

by by_veidt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Clothed Sex, Handcuffs, Licking, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Molestation, Neck Kissing, Restraints, Sensation Play, Sex on Furniture, Sexual Tension, Top Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/by_veidt/pseuds/by_veidt
Summary: The nice sequel to 'Survival'. Will and Hannibal explore his impulses more intimately, and Hannibal is less prepared for Will's unpredictability that he expected.Mid/late season two.





	Kabuki

**Author's Note:**

> I realized this should be a separate thing as it doesn't carry the same flavor as Survival.  
> I don't proofread very thoroughly, so I apologize in advance for spelling and grammar errors; I will try to avoid them. And my apologies for moving it around to those who have already read it.  
> I'm a dirty whore for reviews and kudos.  
> Thank you, and enjoy. : )

“Tell me, Will. What did you see?”

“I... I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“I don't... I saw you—that's all I saw was you.” Hannibal made a pensive face, watching the other struggle, the proverbial gears grind behind the clockface. The twinge of pain that haunted his thoughts was growing duller with each moment passed.

“And how did you feel?”

“Like... like Randall Tier.”

Hannibal lofted his eyebrows, watching as Will's gaze lifted to his own. “Passionate?”

“Like an animal. Like I didn't exist in that moment.”

Hannibal's brow furrowed down the center. “Do you remember it?”

“Yes,” he said weakly, the tremble that was overwhelming his body becoming more obvious. Hannibal felt his heart speed up slightly, the tension and stillness between them like blood coagulating.

Another long moment seeped between them before Hannibal spoke. “And why do you feel as if you were not yourself?”

“I felt completely like myself, just not who I am supposed to be.”

“Does that frighten you?”

“No.”

“And how does _that_ make you feel?”

There was another long pause, Will's eyes intense as they held their ground against the other. “Alive.”

A subtle turn of Hannibal's lips buffered a subtler noise of satisfaction.

 

\-----

 

“Last we spoke you weren't quite feeling yourself, or perhaps too much like yourself.”

“Yes. How are _you_ feeling?” Will's eyes crossed to the other who was perched in his therapy chair as his hand traced over the desk, summoning the memory.

Hannibal turned his head slightly, the enthusiasm in watching the other brimming into his demeanor. “Prepared.”

Will huffed a cold laugh, trailing his fingertips over the top curve of the new, gold-brimmed clock. “Is that so?”

“As much as I hope to be,” he responded, shifting in his seat. “Though, I have always struggled with predicting your behavior, Will.”

“And isn't that how you like it? Unpredictable?” The subtext was not lost on Hannibal, rather, it's almost all he heard.

“I cannot argue that I don't appreciate a little surprise now and again.”

“Because you're the one pulling the strings. It must be frustrating, being the conductor of the symphony—you never get to sit back and appreciate the sum of the parts. Always so focused on making sure everyone comes in on the right note, that they leave after they've served their purpose—the rhythm has to be... just... right.”

“Am I this purported conductor, Will?”

“Are you?”

Hannibal offers a vague smile. “Perhaps not today.”

“Are you just a musician then? Or would you rather be an instrument?” He stepped in front of Hannibal, squared up to him, head inclined down towards him.

“I suppose that depends on the nature of the composition,” Hannibal smiled as he looked up.

“Oh, it's going to be quite beautiful,” he cooed, cool and dark like a lake under ice.

“Then I will defer to your capable hands.”

“Then get up.” He did as he was told, inches away from the other, smile still haunting his features. “Have a seat on the lounge.” Will's eyes were stern, certain—he was becoming a great conductor. Hannibal, after a moment's pause, obeyed, walking slowly, defiantly, over to long piece of furniture, and setting himself down just near the pillow, hands crossed neatly over his lap as he watched the other cross to his bag nearest the opposite chair. He picked it up, reaching into it with a faintly familiar and muffled clatter of metal. He pulled his hand out, clutched around two pairs of stainless-steel handcuffs that gleamed in the low light.

“Full of surprises,” Hannibal commented to quell the loft of physiological arousal in his system.

A thoughtful smirk crossed Will's lips as he approached. “Make yourself comfortable,” he insisted—it wasn't a request for comfort, but a direction for his orientation. Hannibal dipped his head and rotated himself so that the pillow cradled the small of his back, legs sliding straight out in front of him. He slid himself down slightly until he settled with his shoulder blades above the head of the lounge, hands resting over his stomach, guarded. Will plucked a hand from his body, running his thumb along it with veiled affection before crouching and fastening it to the leg of the furniture. He stood again, and with a distant affect extended a leg over the lounge, over Hannibal's lap, and planted his foot on the other side. He lowered his weight until he pressed just down onto the other's body, taking the doctor's free hand and leaning to the other side with it, securing it to the other metal leg.

He raised himself slowly, settling most of his weight back onto Hannibal's groin, scanning over his face as the other placidly regarded him with an underpinning of adoration—a very specific shine to his eyes.

“Are you nervous?” he goaded, taking the edge of the man's collar between his fingers idly.

“Should I be?” came his quick reply, curiosity ringing genuine in those words.

Will just gave him a smug smile before dismounting him, wandering back over to his bag at just above a mosey. His hand closed around something inside, shoving it into his pocket before the other had a chance to see what it was, and once again.

“Some say that to better know a woman, one should inventory the items in her purse; I wonder what your bag would say about you today.”

“It would say...” he turned, pacing back over, looking over a small plastic bottle, “'This man is going to get himself killed.'” He placed it in his back pocket, regarding the other again. “Spread your legs.” Hannibal just looked at him, Will's eyebrow raising slightly with a turn of his head. Hannibal complied, swiping his legs out farther apart. “Farther.” He moved them until his calves dropped from the cushion, knees hugging the form of the lounge. “Good.”

Hannibal closed his eyes momentarily in pensive blink, reconciling the sensation of exposure, and the action was not lost on Will. It was, in fact, the perfectly timed note. And he was fully aware of the potential for it to be completely planned by the other, but he would afford Hannibal these pleasantries of assumed control for the time being, because he was so swiftly on his way out of it. And he wouldn't be able to lie his way out of this.

Will settled nicely across from Hannibal, knees against his, and leaned forward to stroke over them and up the other's thighs. He slid his hands back down when his thumbs pressed just below the curve of the man's groin, slower, purposeful, the other ever watchful. He was relaxed, or he came off as relaxed, but Will suspected that not so deep under that mask there was a keen interest stirring that he had to employ a great amount of effort to suppress. He slid himself closer, knees gliding along the inside of Hannibal's thighs, spreading him more, and suddenly, as if it hadn't crossed his mind at all, Hannibal was reminded of their rendezvous on the desk, a flash of heat growing under his clothes. Will's hands kneaded at the calmed flesh before snaking under his knees and lifting them, shifting himself under the other until Hannibal's legs dangled over his own. He smoothed his hands back over his thighs and over his hips, trailing over the texture of the plaid, single-breasted vest. His fingers glided under the exposed length of his tie, hooked under it and slowly drew it free from its knot. Will licked his lips, just to wet them, grasping a length of tie in each hand, running them down along the fabric before letting the ends drop. He reached up again, unfastening the top button of Hannibal's shirt, then the next and the next, eyeing the way his chest rose and fell in a gentle tide. “This is the same shirt you wore the other night.”

“Yes. I thought it might encourage your memory,” he said matter-of-factly. “Blue is also a soothing color.”

“There was nothing soothing about what happened that night.” Will's hand ran along the skin of Hannibal's neck, pushing the collar further apart.

“Perhaps.”

“Did you see me that night?”

There was a pause as Hannibal interpreted his intent, searching his face for an answer, but the distant expression as he stared at Hannibal's collar gave little. “Yes,” he responded quietly.

“I want... to see you,” he said with a tight smile and a certainty in his tone.

“You have seen me, Will. You are seeing me right now.”

“No, no, no. Not... this. Not whatever this is. I want to see _you_.”

Hannibal looked up with a soft amusement from under his dipped brow as Will's hand traced over his collarbone and down his sternum until it was inhibited by fabric. “And this is how you wish to see me?”

“This is the only way **to** see you, Doctor Lecter. Though, if we're being honest, I'd much rather have torn your shirt open rather than go through the niceties of unbuttoning it.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“Because that would be rude,” he smiled cruelly.

Hannibal let out a huff accompanied by the closest he would come to a grin, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as Will's hand ran back up his chest and along the curve of his throat. “Awfully trusting, don't you think?”

“Considering what else you have planned, I would wager you don't intend to kill me just yet—I hadn't considered you a necrophiliac.”

Will grinned as his thumb played over the rise of the man's adam's apple, musing on the notes and tones that line of fibrous tissue would make for him—he could be an accomplished first chair tonight.

“Though I am curious...” Hannibal continued, interrupting Will's line of thought, “why like this? I mean, I understand the restraints, I suppose, but what about this makes you think I will be any more of less honest with you in this position?”

“Because physiology doesn't lie, doctor.”

“Do you plan on interrogating me then? When I am enamored and at your whim?”

“Something like that.”

“Then prepare yourself—you may not like the truth as much as you suspect.”

“Oh, no, I imagine it will be all I could want and more.” Will leaned in slowly, pressing his lips to the smooth tension of Hannibal's skin pulled taut over the column of his neck, leaving a consummate trail of soft presses before his tongue lathed out above his clavicle and across his jugular. There was a distinct jump in the pulse under his tongue that seeded a deep gratification in him. “I think we're going to have a very good time together,” he smirked, voice low in the back of his throat.

“That is relieving to hear you say, Will, because you have put me in a position where there is little influence I could have over the situation.”

“You always have influence—and I imagine you'll be an _active_ participant.” His tongue glided effortlessly over the grab of skin, the smell of expensive cologne growing stronger, fighting with the fine and tender flavor of the doctor on his tongue and in his mouth.

“Then I hope to not disappoint you,” he replied, but there was a lift to this tone, a breathy quality that made Will's cock twitch. Will's hands had settled at the joint of Hannibal's hips, thumbs pressing in just at the inside of the joint and massaging in slow circles, a tightness drawing through the doctor's body at the stimulation, and he was suddenly very curious as to where and when Will had accrued knowledge in this particular area of interest. Hannibal opted for swallowing rather than releasing the breath that held tight in his lungs because he knew it would shudder if it came out.

Will drew in a long breath against his skin, tilting his head up until his lips rest in the space behind the other's jaw and below his ear. He exhaled slowly, hot and damp, thumbs pressing just a little firmer, and Hannibal was every bit as aware of the warm tingle the motions sent into his groin as Will was, the warm press of Will's chest against his own exacerbating the warmth that reared again. And Hannibal laughed inwardly at himself, losing his grip on the many threads he held to keep his suit together, slipping from his grasp millimeter by millimeter. He could play it off as designed loss, but the creature between his legs was transforming the same way it had the other night, ripping his guise to shreds, devouring it, feasting on the primal essence of him—them both. It was almost growing into an opera, the drama and turmoil between them—the tension, the thrill. These two men with a penchant for the opposite sex coming together, melding, burning for each other, yearning for that domination and surrender simultaneously. No room for second thoughts.

Will drew his top row of teeth against the very faint stubble just under the other's jaw, taking a small section of flesh into his mouth, biting gently, pulling gently, releasing gently. Hannibal closed his eyes, and it was a difficult gesture to be sure, as he tried to calm his heart-rate as it jumped several beats—he didn't want to show his hand just yet, but he had not planned on Will being so capable. Unpredictable. The movements Will made were so tender, they could barely be called erotic, but that was all of who he was, and there was nothing more exciting than having all of who Will was unravel all of what Hannibal is.

Will's hand laid gently over the erect form beneath the other's pants, noting, but not engaging otherwise. “See? Honesty.”

“How do you know I am simply not thinking about something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like being ten steps forward from where we are now.”

Will gave a restrained chuckle, lips pursed but curled up, thumb running along the underside of Hannibal's length, and there was an infinitesimal flicker of change in the man's demeanor—a widening of the eyes, pupils, a slight hitch in his chest, Will was not sure, but it was certainly there. And the muted spill of pink that bled into his features was a not so unnoticeable change to Will, certainly not any flash of embarrassment, but probably simply of arousal and the undivided attention Will gave to him. He ran his thumb back up and down the length again, nail dragging against the fabric on the long and agonizing slide back down. And of all the ways Hannibal had imagined himself dying, at the hands of Will's sensual torture rocketed to his number one preference.

Will pressed his palm flat against the hardened length, Hannibal hips shying back rather than pressing in—a trained reaction. And he swallowed, compulsively, Will's eyes darting up first to Hannibal's throat and then to the gaze Hannibal had already averted.

“Are you uncomfortable, Doctor Lecter?” he purred, delighted and saccharine, easing his hand further, chasing that which he was denied.

And for too long he didn't know how to respond, briefly losing touch with his swift wit, and suddenly all of the lies he could conjure quickly were inadequate, the leering shine of Will in front of him burning through the veil. “Quite the opposite,” he managed—not a complete lie. But he was, in fact, terribly uncomfortable—uncomfortable with the hasty surrender his body made, uncomfortable with the, dare he think, vulnerability, and uncomfortable with the way he so much wanted all of it. He had severely underestimated what Will could and would do to him, and he was in too deep, and Will was going to be—and he longed for Will to capture some part of him, ruin him as he had Will. He wanted to see if Will could.

“Good.” His hand articulated around the shape of Hannibal's cock, still tauntingly through the layers of fabric, and Hannibal might as well have shouted instead of the reserved gasp he took in through his nose. His fingers stroked over the chains of the handcuffs, lulling his head forward, forcing himself to look into those normally so emotionally expansive eyes, finding nothing but guilded lust and cruel intentions. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.” And both were impressed he could manage that with a straight face—it was certainly more of an insult than a consolation. No bullet or knife could be more potentially fatal than that wound would to his ego. Hannibal lifted his hips up into the touch, a faint curl to the corners of his mouth that screamed 'desperate attempt at control', but Will was a good fisherman, and there were always appropriate times for letting out more line. He stroked the other through his pants, letting Hannibal move himself with the motion—small, thoughtless actions.

Will brought his other hand to Hannibal's belt, pulling the band of leather free with slow, steady movements, mirrored in how he touched the other. Next, the button of his trousers, easy and noiseless. He stole a glance up again, Hannibal's content amusement belying the pupil-darkened rounds of his eyes and the deeper blush that was splattered across his face—a fresh kill of desire. He pressed again, trapping Hannibal's cock against his thigh while his other hand carefully drew the zipper down. He peeled back the fold of fog gray plaid, revealing a wide, idiosyncratically-checked waistband attached to rich black fabric, pulled taut and thin over the solid warmth of the base of his erection. And Will smiled—smiled at the absurdity of such underwear even existing, and of course he would be wearing designer underwear because that was the type of person he wanted everyone to see, even those getting into his pants—even Will. He thumbed over every swell of flesh he could, the fabric remarkably soft and forgiving—ironic, really. His fingers dug underneath where the pants would not reveal, hand folding perfectly around the shape straining in its knit prison. And Hannibal, try as he might, could not stifle the minuscule, desperate, and needy sound that escaped him as a low toned sigh, cock throbbing under Will's hand. “You know, you're allowed to enjoy yourself.”

“I am enjoying myself.”

“The more you resist it now, though, the more terribly uncouth it will be later when you're panting and moaning.” And that seemed to strike a nerve, a chilled tightness running through Hannibal that was far too evident—and Will just smiled.

“Well,” the doctor breathed with a flippant air, “don't ever let anyone say you are not humble.”

Will gave him a firm squeeze in response, a throb under his hand matching and a sharp breath accompanying. Will tilted his head just slightly, boasting; he could do this all night.

 


End file.
